


The Entire Lyrics to Hayley Kiyoko's "Sleepover"

by prodigalDaughter



Category: Jem and the Holograms (Cartoon), Jem and the Holograms - All Media Types
Genre: F/F, Gen, and some fun writing in Pizzazz's voice, even the jemzazz is low key this is mostly a character exploration, stormer/kimber is background
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-02
Updated: 2018-05-02
Packaged: 2019-05-01 02:47:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14510841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prodigalDaughter/pseuds/prodigalDaughter
Summary: In which Pizzazz gets chocolate on her shirt, talks about her dad, and ruins a party.Cartoon universe (takes place in the last episode, actually) with some character influence from IDW.





	The Entire Lyrics to Hayley Kiyoko's "Sleepover"

Stormer was honestly the only reason she was here. “We have to go see her off”, “we have to call truce for today,” “oh, can’t you see how _important_ this is?” Important, her ass. So one of Jerrica’s little brats found her birth father— so what? Some shell-shocked artist who’d probably have no idea how to take care of her, who’d paint her picture a few times before realizing she looked too much like her dead mother and dumping her back in Jerrica’s lap. Whatever. 

But Stormer had made those big puppy-dog eyes at her, and Pizzazz _had_ promised to listen to her more, so here she was, pretending it was her idea. She’d make the best of it-- not that there was any booze, or good music. She’d crashed onto a sofa and watched little Bunny open presents— a new dress Shana made her, some Easter-pastel monstrosity with too many bows which she immediately ran off to change into. There was a photo album the other kids put together, there was a locket from Jerrica. Then there was the paint set from Stormer, which Pizzazz thought she should get credit for too, what with how much trouble she’d had to put into helping Stormer tie the bow. 

Roxy had written Bunny a card, and Pizzazz was still a little thrown by that. She’d seen her working on it, the day before, seen her hand trembling as she held the pencil, seen her eyes flicking to the little alphabet card tacked to her wall that she covered with a band poster when she knew she had company. Her handwriting was still shit, but that was to be expected. Bunny sure didn’t seem to mind. 

Pizzazz needed some cake. This was too sappy; she needed real sweets to help it go down. There was a big old sheet cake on the table, and she cut herself a generous chunk. Yellow cake, chocolate ice cream, soda pop; that’s what kids’ parties were really about. 

Turning back to the sofa, she realized three things: First, that her spot had been stolen by Riot; second, that there was a big-ass banner on the wall that said _Good-Bye, Ba-Nee_ ; and third, Bunny’s name wasn’t Bunny. Shit. 

Riot was looking over at her curiously, and she felt like her hair was standing on end. No running away; Pizazz doesn’t run away. Nothing to do now but head over there and plop into his lap.  
He dodged. She was kind of relieved until she realized she’d spilled ice cream on her top. 

“Riot!” she exclaimed. “Look what you did!” 

“My apologies, miss Gabor,” he said with that absurdly charming smile, and produced a paper napkin from the nearby coffee table for her to clean up with. It had Jem’s face printed on it.

“Are you kidding me,” she grumbled, smearing Jem’s paper face with chocolate as she wiped it off her top. Thank hell for synthetics that wiped clean; vinyl was a goddamn gift. “She has her face printed on napkins and she uses ‘em at her own party?” 

“I believe Ba-Nee requested them specifically,” Riot replied, sitting down again a good foot to her right. “There are more, with the other members of her band.”

“Screw that.”

“I feel much the same. Jem is the interesting one.”

Pizzazz huffed. When he turned that smile on her, her heart did something funny, but the more time she spent around him the less that pitter-patter seemed to actually have to do with him. It was something separate; something about the grin and the perfect teeth but not really the man behind them. That said, the more he swooned over Jem the madder she got. 

“That’s not really classy,” she said. “Talking about a girl to another girl.”

He shrugged. “Seems fine to me. My interest is not a secret.”

She sighed, and leaned back to eat her cake and watch the party. Ba-Nee (not Bunny, remember that she’s not Bunny—) was playing twister with some of the other girls in the middle of the living room floor. They were falling all over each other, giggling. Martin, the painter that would be taking Ba-Nee home later, was spinning the wheel for them. Kids were so dumb and happy and cute and impossible. 

“Stupidest reason for a party I ever heard,” she mumbled.

“Pardon?” Damnit, Riot; you’re not supposed to listen when a lady’s talking to herself. 

“Finding her dad. So what? He’s not gonna be like she wants him to be. If she knew what was good for her, she’d stay here with the other brats.”

“Martin seems like a decent man,” Riot said. “We must remind ourselves of that.”

“We?”

“Jem has not told you what I told her?” he asked. “About my father?”

“Why would I be talking to Jem? We’re not exactly best buddies.” 

“Ah, I’m sorry. Somehow, you often seem to be in sync. You appear together so much, you are always in competitions… it seemed that at a certain point, you would make peace.”

Pizazz shook her head, shuddered demonstratively. “No way. I’m not making peace with that brat.” 

Riot shrugged, tossing his thick gold curls over his shoulder. Damn fop had better hair than she did and she would never forgive him for that. 

“But… what about your dad?” she asked. 

“We did not get on. Still do not, most of the time. He never thought my music was worthwhile. He only respects it now because he sees I am successful, because he sees I am making a great deal of money, and because my mother nearly died from his constant yelling.”

“Shit,” Pizazz said, emphatically.

“Yes. It is shit.”

Pizzazz swallowed. She felt like she had to say something. 

“My dad just… doesn’t really know anything about who I am. He doesn’t care. He used to bankroll me because he didn’t know any other way to— to talk to me.”

“He gave you money?”

“Yeah, all the time— how d’you think we opened Misfits Music? How d’you think we could afford to make our first videos? How d’you think we could go flying all around the world on no notice for pop up shows?”

“I rather assumed you hid in Jem’s planes, for that. In the luggage, like a little teddy bear.”

“You’re not really covering yourself in glory here, Riot.”

He huffed, apparently annoyed. “I just don’t see what you’re complaining about. He supports your art; how is that bad?”

“He’d just give me money when I asked and then ignore me. And I see Clash with her dad, and the Bentons freakin’ swooning over their dead father as if he was something so _special._ It was— it was fine, with my dad. It was pretty great, I mean, who needs anything else. Who needs it? But he cut me off, and I—“

And she cut _herself_ off, gritting her teeth. Who needed it? She meant that part. Fathers weren’t worth it. 

“There’s just nothing left,” she finished, lamely. 

“So he cut you off. So what? You started big, and you can stay big. The man launched your career.”

“I launched my own career!” she exclaimed, more shrill than she’d meant to be. 

“Do you have any idea what it is to lose a father? The man who taught you to fish, to shave, to stand up straight; who rocked you to sleep when you are small— to have him hate you? To come to blows with him? To lose everything, every scrap of family because you are a _disappointment_ to him—”

“No, because I never had a dad like that to begin with! Ever since mom left, he wouldn’t even look me in the eyes— what are you even talking about with fishing and _rocking you to sleep_ — you sound like a picture book for these brats. That’s not what fathers are— fathers spend their whole lives at work, leave you fifty bucks on the kitchen table to buy your birthday dinner but the note isn’t even in his handwriting, it’s his assistant’s because he didn’t even remember—“

Riot’s hand settled on her shoulder. Big, and warm, and calloused. She let out an infuriated little whine, trying not to cry. That wasn’t what a rock star did. A rock star didn’t cry because she had a shitty father and was a shitty person and— and there she was, blowing her nose on a napkin, getting snot and her foundation all over Jem’s pretty pink printed hair. 

Another hand settled on her, this one on her knee, little and cold. Her eyes snapped open, to see Ashley looking up at her. She was wearing that same leopard-print jacket she was wearing the first time Pizazz had seen her. Hadn’t that been over a year ago? Did the brat have no other clothes, or did she just like that damn jacket too much? 

“You can use my room,” she said, “if you wanna be alone.”

Pizzazz froze up. She’d locked this brat in a damn steamer trunk once, and now she was offering her room so she could cry in peace? Kid was gonna turn into Stormer if she wasn’t careful. She stood up, crumpling the napkin in her hand, suddenly feeling like all eyes were on her and it wasn’t for her badass vocals. 

“What would I need that for?” she exclaimed, voice wavering, nasal and squeaky and horrible. “I’m the life of the party! You all can’t handle me!”

And she took off down the hall and up the stairs. This stupid mansion that should have been hers, that should have been a perfect place to live with her bandmates, where they could record and slide down the bannisters and screen their calls— now every room had a stupid little nameplate, kids’ stupid crayon drawings on the walls, stupid teddy bears and stupid volleyball in the middle of the stupid hallway and she took a flying stupid spill onto the carpet. 

Shouldn’t run when you’re crying and can’t see. Stupid stupid stupid. 

She got up shakily, glad no one was around to see that, and scowled at the smear of her makeup on the rug. There was the little nameplate that said _Ashley_ , on a door, and she angrily locked herself in a _different_ room. That’ll teach the little brat to come up to a lady who’s crying and tell her— stupid—

She took a shaky breath and sat on the kid’s bed. It was too close to the ground, and the comforter was pink and white and lavender, but at least she was alone. She dropped her head back, breathing slowly, trying to calm down. She knew she had a temper, but usually she yelled instead of crying. Yelling felt better; this was just miserable— though either way she was always sick and sad after. She never felt more helpless than when she’d burst out yelling and it didn’t change anything; in the time when she was cooling down she felt so small.

It was quiet upstairs, no hint of the squealing laughter down in the main room and the kitchen. All she could hear was her own breathing, her own heart pounding in her ears, and the wind in the trees outside. 

She ran her fingers through her hair, took a deep breath, and fished out her compact from her purse. The purple streak in the hollow of one cheek had been completely ruined by her spill in the hallway, and she’d have to clean it off with a wipe and re-paint it completely, which would suck in her tiny hand mirror. 

The kid had a big mirror, though, which she could kneel in front of to fix her makeup. There were plastic pearls hanging across one corner, which she took and put on. They were lighter than real pearls, and they were so obviously fake it was almost fun to be wearing them. Her father would have a conniption if he saw her in these. She giggled. 

All right. Face fixed, deep breath, time to go eat the rest of the cake and scowl at anyone who tried to point out she’d been crying. 

She unlocked the door, and was face to face with Jem. Horrible, horrible yellow and blue jumpsuit with polkadots. Nobody who didn’t have a figure like a pin-up could possibly pull that thing off, but she did. What a mess. What a look on her face, like she was— concerned. Damn.

“I heard you ran off,” she said. “And now you’re wearing Krissie’s pearls. What was that about not making trouble?”

“Hey, I never said I wasn’t making trouble, just that you shouldn’t assume the worst of me.”

“You’re giving me no reason not to,” she said, crossing her arms. Pizzazz pushed past her and headed back downstairs. If Stormer wasn’t her ride, she’d be out of here already. 

Where the hell was Stormer, anyway? She couldn’t see her anywhere. She’d been chatting with Ba-Nee earlier in the afternoon, but she was gone now. Their car was still parked outside, though; she could see it out the window. Huh. 

Ashley was giving her a worried look, so she snarled at her. Stupid kids. Stupid Ba-Nee, sitting in the lap of this ginger bastard who was looking through her sketchbook and complimenting every damn thing. Nobody did that shit and meant it. What did he want from her? This was all going to fall apart. 

More cake. That’d make things better. 

Riot was talking to Jem in the corner. Jem’s eyes definitely flicked over to her. Shit. She hated this feeling, like everyone was judging her, like she was the troublesome child and everyone was her goddamn dad. If they were going to talk about her, it’d be on her own terms. There was a tablecloth. There were plates and vases and the cake stand on it. If she pulled the cloth out from under them cleanly, that would be awesome, and if it made everything fall off the table, that’d make the children cry, and either way it’d be _her_ decision what was happening. She grasped the edge of the tablecloth and opened her mouth to shout _hey, kids, wanna see something cool?_ , but was interrupted by a cheer. 

“It’s time,” Shana said. “Ba-Nee and her dad have a long drive to get home, so it’s time to say goodbye for now.”

Pizzazz let go of the tablecloth, reluctantly. Ba-Nee was running around hugging everyone, being scooped up and passed around, laughing, laughing, and Pizzazz was so startled by it all that she even gave the girl a hug when she passed by. Ba-Nee kissed her on the cheek, and she wanted to scream _I thought your name was Bunny until an hour ago!_

Stormer came running downstairs to give the kid a hug, and Kimber followed her. They both held the kid, together, for a long moment. Stormer looked like she gave good hugs, Pizzazz thought idly. Not that she wanted a hug. She wanted cake, and she’d have some. She hadn’t finished her last piece anyway. Good old yellow cake. 

She was gonna have to fix her lipstick again, but it was worth it for cake. As Ba-Nee left with her father, Pizzazz flopped down onto a different sofa, regarding her earlier seat with some suspicion. Ashley was there now, chatting with some other Starlight Brats she didn’t recognize. They were talking about watching a movie. _To keep us from getting too lonely_ , one of them said. Kid, there’s still like twelve of you. 

A small delegation of girls ran off to the library to pick a VHS, and Jerrica, who had re-appeared recently, circled the room to lower the lights before kissing Rio good night and disappearing again. Kimber and Stormer ran off upstairs again to fetch the girls’ pillows and stuffed animals, dumping them on the floor and announcing this was now a slumber party. The girls cheered and ran to change into pajamas, and the adults at the party were left staring at each other in awkward silence. 

Minx, sprawled over Rapture, yawned dramatically and stretched, complaining that it was time for either drinks or bed. Pizzazz rolled her eyes— it was, what, seven?— but Riot scooped her up in his arms and said good night, and the three of them took their leave. Riot caught Pizzazz’s eye on his way out— that sympathy should have made her heart flutter, but instead it made her feel sort of sick. She had a bite of cake, angrily. 

Rio stretched and announced that with Jerrica gone to bed he’d better head out. Kimber teased him, asking if he cared about the rest of the band at all, and he took it too seriously and started grumbling about how they didn’t appreciate him; how dare she suggest he didn’t care about her, blah, blah, blah. Pizzazz watched the whole damn argument from her comfy seat, and for once in her life felt grateful for Clash. At least she didn’t kick up this _particular kind_ of fuss. 

Once he’d stormed out, the girls started pouring back in from upstairs, in their various flannel onesies and nighties and pj sets. They were disgustingly cute, and much nicer to each other than they’d ever been to her. All night she’d been noticing; they were so sweet and polite and unassuming. The ones who’d been picking a VHS were still in their party dresses, the others happily told them what was up, and they dropped the video on the coffee table to go change too.

_Annie_. They’d picked goddamn _Annie_. That movie could go right to hell. 

“Stormer, we’re leaving,” Pizzazz said, standing up. 

“No, we’re not,” Stormer said, a little whiny. “It’s just getting good.”

She was sitting with Kimber on the sofa, leaning on her— those two were too close, ever since their little _back to back_ adventure— and pouting up at Pizzazz.

“Seriously, Pizzazz, we called truce,” Kimber said, “so chill out and have some cake.”

“I already did,” Pizzazz grumbled. She did sit back down, though; Stormer was still her ride. Jetta hadn’t even come, and Roxy couldn’t be trusted behind a wheel. She’d just ignore the movie. 

Pizzazz put her feet up on the coffee table and sulked. The kids were all sprawled on pillows and blankets on the floor, and Jem came down from upstairs— did she live here with them or not?— to start the movie. She hadn’t been here when Stormer and Kimber had decided it was a slumber party, Pizzazz thought, so how did she know to come back down in her stupid pink silk pajamas? Whatever. It didn’t matter, just so long as she kept her distance—

And of course she sat right next to Pizzazz. Right next to her. Why. 

“I wanted to talk to you, Pizzazz,” she said softly, “if you don’t mind.”

“There’s something I wanted to talk to you about, too,” Pizzazz grumbled, “and I’m going first.”

Jem looked surprised, but then just chuckled. “Go ahead,” she said in that ridiculously smooth voice. 

“But first we’re moving. I’m not talking over Annie, I don’t wanna watch this crap anyway.”

“Watch your language around the girls,” Jem scolded. Pizzazz rolled her eyes and headed out of the living room, letting Jem follow her. She headed through the foyer and plopped down on the stairs and watched Jem gently, gracefully sit next to her, one hand on the bannister to make her movement even more elegant. It wasn’t fair. She looked like an ideal, like a doll, like how a teenager imagines her future self when she’s daydreaming. Her pajamas were a boxy cut but they draped on her frame so elegantly— not fair, not fair, not fair. Pizzazz probably still had some chocolate on her top. 

“Kids are awful,” she started, shaking herself. “I mean, they’re insufferable.”

“Pizzazz, why did you come if you’re just going to insult my foster girls?” 

“I’m going somewhere with this, shut up. Plus I thought they were Jerrica Benton’s fosters.”

“I’m just here so often,” Jem stammered. “They feel like mine.”

“You’re so soppy,” Pizzazz grumbled. “Point, though. I had a point. When Starlight Mansion was mine, for about five minutes, these kids were the _worst_. They were grabbing me, dragging me around, demanding shit every two seconds. But they’re not being like that now.”

“What are you saying, Pizzazz?”

“I’m saying your kids were _faking it._ They were trying to get rid of me!”

“And?”

Pizzazz stopped flat. That was supposed to be the big finish. That was supposed to be the gotcha, the moment where sweet goody-good Jem was so horrified with the actions of her kids she’d flare up, make a face, something would _happen_ — but no, she wasn’t phased at all. 

“I mean— you condone that?”

“The girls love Jerrica. She’s a very lucky woman. You haven’t exactly been their best friend, Pizzazz. So they wanted to keep things the way they are; they wanted to keep the home run by a functional company.”

“Are you calling Misfits Music dysfunctional?!”

“Are you denying it?”

Pizzazz crossed her arms, fuming. She felt like she’d stepped too high at the top of the stairs in the dark and she was plunging. There was a sickness in the pit of her stomach. 

Sometimes she thought this feeling would make a good song, but it was just too damn vulnerable for her image. Maybe she could make Stormer sing it. 

“Whatever. What were you gonna say?”

“I wanted to talk to you about Tibet.”

“What?”

“When we were in Tibet last year. I heard what you did for that little girl.”

“That— why do you know about that?”

“We were the ones who were in the Himalayas first, remember? You and your friends followed us.” 

“Doesn’t mean you need to get up in our business.”

“Sorry, would you rather I left you to die?” There was a flash in Jem’s eyes, something sharp and skeptical; a side she didn’t usually show the cameras.

“Whatever,” Pizzazz said for what felt like the thousandth time that evening. “What about it?”

“It was just sort of a relief, you know, when I heard. I was impressed, Pizzazz. I didn’t know you had it in you.”

“What are you talking about? I slipped, I got scratched by some hideous poison briar thing and I got sick. That’s all.”

“She told me herself,” Jem said, and Pizzazz’s chest clutched. “How you and Roxy slid down the hill to get her out. You put yourselves in danger, ended up with a potentially fatal injury, to rescue a little girl you hardly knew.”

“Don’t try to pretend I owe you,” Pizzazz said hastily, voice cracking. “It’s your fault we were in the Himalayas in the first place, so you owed it to us to heal us up— whatever you did, if it was even thanks to you. So I don’t owe you anything, and if you’re trying to—“

“That’s not what I mean, Pizzazz. I just wanted to say that… I respect that. I was surprised you did it, and maybe that wasn’t fair of me. I try to believe the best of people, but I didn’t believe the best of you.”

“Never given you reason to, remember?” Pizzazz mumbled. Jem winced— winced! Pizzazz wanted to crow over the victory, but she felt kind of uncomfortable instead. 

“Look,” Jem said gently, in that soft and gentle voice. “I know you’re only here on truce because of Kimber and Stormer. We all know.” 

_What did Kimber have to do with anything,_ Pizzazz wondered.

“But I’d like it if the truce could keep going. We’ve been at each other’s throats so long, without really getting to know each other. I’m interested, in what I’ve seen. I’d like to know more.”

She leaned in a little closer. Pizzazz couldn’t help but notice the first button of her pajama top was undone, and with that lean she could see right down it. Her tits were pressed together by the way she was holding her arms— it wasn’t fair, she looked like a Barbie doll but better, her skin looked so smooth and soft and impossibly perfect—

Jem giggled, softly. “I was wondering if you’d like to… follow Stormer and Kimber’s example? At least, try it?”

Pizzazz shook herself. “I’m not recording with you. Our styles wouldn’t even mesh! And we all know you’d try to make me into a glorified backup singer, and dress me in stupid pastels— no, no way. It’s not happening.”

Jem looked startled, more than disappointed. Huh. 

“That’s okay,” she said. “Whatever you want. I’m not pushy. But maybe, if you were interested, we could… go to breakfast? Talk music?”

“Breakfast? Why breakfast?”

“Stormer’s your ride, right? She’s definitely sleeping over, which means you are too.”

Damn it, Stormer. What was so important about a sleepover with kids?

“You can borrow pajamas; a couple of the couches pull out so there’ll be room for you and Roxy.”

“You’d better be buying breakfast,” Pizzazz grumbled, realizing she had no choice.

“Gladly,” Jem said, reaching around behind Pizzazz’s neck with a smug little smile to unclasp the plastic pearls. All Pizzazz’s little hairs stood on end from the brush of her hand, and she felt frozen as Jem got up and swayed up the stairs. 

“They’d better be warm pajamas,” she shouted after her. “I’m shivering in your cold-ass mansion!”

**Author's Note:**

> I asked my gf what to title this and that's what she told me.


End file.
